After all the thick music
and the bleak
diary entries,
after Nobel prizes
and analyses
are accepted—
a little machine:
a firework
which displays
(in the flair of its plume)
one frame
of a dream?
Is it not a we
divided by me—
a body on a page
stalked offstage
by a concept?
Or, shall we make it
even easier to defend
and claim it's
more like a novel
with everything
but the intensest feelings
wrung out of it—
until all that's left
is a curious pulp
that molds
in our grip
to the shape
of deep silence?
